


The Summer of the Serpents

by TheDreamsOfTheAges (LadyOfTheSouthernIsles)



Category: Hellboy (Movies), Hellboy - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2151543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfTheSouthernIsles/pseuds/TheDreamsOfTheAges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a summer of half-heard whispers, vague words and swirling rumour but the wondrous, terrible tales being told held out the promise of hope to the beleaguered prince of a doomed race. Nuada sees the true face of his enemy and is confronted with the enormity of his task.  Approximately five chapters in total when finished. Nuada. Wink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this work._

**AD 793.**  
_In this year fierce, foreboding omens came over the land of the Northumbrians, and the wretched people shook; there were excessive whirlwinds, lightning, and fiery dragons were seen flying in the sky._  
\- The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (Worcester and Laud versions).

Hard, golden eyes narrowed against the summer sun as the tall, pale-haired warrior surveyed the dark sands and glistening mudflats stretching out before him. Twice a day, for a few brief hours, the ebb tide laid bare a damp, miry path which led to a small jewel of green set in the cerulean sea and lying not far distant from the shore of the mainland… a small jewel of green for which the warrior was now bound. A flicker of distaste flashed across his face as he stared at the route he had to take.

"You'd best not tarry, prince," warned his large, gruff companion. "Whilst you contemplate the likely fate of your boots, the full flood closes in. We will be forced to wait for another turning of the tide if you do not make haste now."

The warrior whipped round at those words.  His sharp, auriferous eyes skewered the troll who had uttered them. There was a long moment of silence and then Nuada inclined his head.  
  
"You are right, as always, Mr Wink," he replied sardonically.  
  
In the blink of an eye, the chiselled planes of his face dissolved into the muted colours and weathered lines of a human face, and the gleaming fall of his white, gilt-tipped hair became nothing more than a few straggly wisps of dull, dirty straw. His black, tooled-leather armour took on the appearance of a coarsely-woven woollen tunic, covering him from neck to foot, and his soon-to-be-sacrificed boots – which could surely be counted amongst the finest exemplars of Fae artisanship, and which were certainly the most comfortable pair he'd ever owned - were transformed into roughly-stitched, cowhide turnshoes. His sword metamorphosed into a small pack whilst the Silverlance became a sturdy, gnarled oaken staff.  The transformation was complete.

 _Or almost complete_ , thought the cave troll to himself. The washed-out human eyes staring back at him still held the cold, deadly light of the elven eyes beneath, and the proud, uncompromising carriage of his body clearly marked Nuada as a man of the sword rather than the man of God for whom he hoped to pass. But the humans, suspicious though they were, generally only saw what they wanted to see and despite these small tells, the elven prince stood a better-than-even chance of deceiving them as to his true nature - for a day or two, at least.

"I will go now. You wait here until the next turning of the tide, when you can slip over to the island under cover of darkness," ordered Nuada, somewhat unnecessarily, as he faced the sea once more. They had gone over their simple plan several times now and each knew his part well enough.

Wink merely grunted in return and took up position alongside one of the standing stones on the small rise above the beach. As his companion headed down the grassy slope, towards the sand and mud that marked his way, the large troll rested his back against the menhir and folded in on himself. Soon enough he was part of the landscape, indistinguishable from the surrounding stones except for his one dark, shining eye which remained firmly fixed on the retreating figure before him. His care for Nuada was real enough but he also knew that should any great harm befall the prince, the elven magic protecting his own thick hide would fail and he would turn to stone for all time should he be unlucky enough to be caught by the killing rays of the hot, golden sun. The elven warrior had proved himself difficult to dispatch thus far, and Wink murmured a quick prayer to the ancient Gods that the prince's luck – and his own - would continue to hold; there was a distinct lack of cover on this windswept stretch of coastline and the cave troll wasn't at all certain he fancied the idea of waiting out eternity in such an unfamiliar spot so far from the land of his birth.

… …

Down on the sands, Nuada's worst fears were realised the very second he stepped out onto the glistening causeway. Dark, slimy mud oozed up over his feet, slowing his steps and making the going hard. The hem of his conjured-up tunic dragged in the thick, sticky stuff, and he cursed the need to ruin his glamoured boots by walking to the island as a human would instead of using his magic to transport himself across the treacherous strait. But success depended on his blending in with the inhabitants of the small community long enough to gain their trust and prise from them the information he sought - assuming they had that information.  A sudden appearance in their midst would not help his cause in that respect. At least this way, the lookout posted at the island's approach would see him coming and the humans would think him no different to any other new arrival. Compared to the prize in the offing, he supposed his boots were a small enough price to pay - as was the affront to his senses which came from having to mingle so closely with the detested foe.

As he trudged through the mire, Nuada cast his mind back to the beginning of summer, to when he'd first heard the rumours. They had started as vague, half-formed whispers, as such talk often did, and in those early days he'd paid them little heed. Ruthlessly repressing the faint flare of hope engendered by the nebulous words – for how could he dare to hope - he'd gone about his business as usual, which is to say, he had continued to study the enemy and occasionally defend those of his people whom he could against the encroaching tide of humanity. It was little enough but with his plans for the Golden Army in tatters and his hands bound by Balor's edicts, it was all he _could_ do in this self-imposed exile. However, as the season had worn on, the rumours had only gained in currency until, at last, he could no longer disregard what was being said… just as he could no longer deny the flame of hope which now burned bright in his breast  For it seemed he might be on the brink of discovering a way to deal with the old enemy once and for all.

The talk told of wondrous, fearsome things: of lightning in the heavens on a clear, summer's day, and of strange, wild winds which set church bells to ringing; of dark-winged angels clad in the raiments of the grave, and of terrible demons abroad in the world; of an earth turned upside down and of fiery signs abounding. But most interestingly of all, to Nuada's ears, were reports of great, writhing serpents seen flying in the eventide sky. A blazing hope sprung up in his heart: maybe somehow, against all odds, some few of the _Fairtheoirí Dragan Mór_ had returned to this world. If that proved to be the case, then he would have found his means by which to halt the insidious creep of humanity across the face of the earth.  For the great dragons answered to no one, not even the King of Elfland. They would surely not countenance what was happening now and, his father's precious truce notwithstanding, would take their place beside him, joining their magic with his in order to defeat the common enemy.

Nuada's half-smile of anticipation quickly became a scowl as his thoughts turned to his first attempt to discover more about the wondrous events being reported that summer. He'd heard of a village – a human village – which had borne the brunt of a ferocious attack by a great fire-breathing dragon, or so the story went, and in his eagerness to confirm the truth of the rumour it seemed he'd forgotten everything he had ever learnt about his foe. He had suddenly – and stupidly – appeared in the middle of a small farming settlement on the northernmost tip of the great main island, sword in hand and Wink in tow, and after a stunned pause the few remaining inhabitants had taken up their cudgels and scythes and rushed the pair. The only thing he'd discovered was that there was no talking to the villagers, and that was not so much a discovery as a short, sharp reminder of what he already knew. Though he'd silenced their raucous, ear-splitting cries – something about ice-white devils and hulking fiends from Hell but not a word of any sort about dragons – he'd also, perforce, put a swift end to any chance of learning anything of value from them.

He had been more careful in his second attempt but all the same he'd fared no better. A little further down the coast he had been directed to the lone survivor of another brutal attack, this time by a flight of dragons apparently, but the experience had so broken her mind that for all the magic he'd worked on the human woman, there was nothing to be had from her other than the same few wild words about the death-dealing serpents that had swept in from the sea.

He'd almost completed the crossing now and Nuada paused for a moment. He raised his eyes to the jutting escarpment at the southeast corner of the island. _The third time is the charm_ , he told himself as his gaze shifted to the reed-thatched priory of hewn oak sitting a short distance away from the outcrop. He had received new information only the day before, from an alseid whom he'd met in his travels, and he hoped that here, on Lindisfarne – a place sacred to his kind once and sacred still to the humans who'd dispossessed them - the old saying would prove true and he would finally find something more solid than the vague, amorphous third and fourth-hand accounts - human accounts, mostly – which up until now had been his only source of information about what had been taking place along the north-eastern coastline this summer.

A loud, chiming sound suddenly rent the air, startling Nuada and putting an end to his ruminations. He lifted his eyes to the vault of the sky. The sun was still in the eastern quarter, at the midpoint, which meant the priory bells were calling the inhabitants of the island's monastery to Terce. His lips curled in disdain as he stepped onto the sandy shores of the island; how fortunate to find he'd arrived just in time to take part in one of their daily observances.  He paused for a moment, to draw all the strength he could from the blazing, summer sun, before setting forth to join the men of the new religion - the monks who sang psalms, morning, noon and night, to the glory of a God they had fashioned in their own image.  With his resolve firmly in place, he pulled the cowl of his robes up over his head and turned towards the Temple of Man.

 

* * *

 

**References:**

Turnshoes: a medieval shoe made of leather, put together inside out and then turned right-side-out once finished in order to hide main seam and make the shoe more durable and weather-tight.

Na Fairtheoirí Dragan Mór: (Irish Gaelic) The Great Dragon Sentinels.

Alseid: (Greek mythology) grove nymph.

Terce: (Third Hour) one of the services in the Liturgy of Hours, or Divine Office, Terce is a fixed time of prayer observed at 9 a.m. each day. Refers to the third hour of the day after dawn.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Nuada noticed as he strode up the grassy slope leading away from the beach was the lack of a lookout of any sort. _So much for being seen to arrive in the manner of a human_ , he thought sourly to himself as he glanced down at his mud-encrusted, water-logged boots; what he wouldn't have given for a few elves from his old detachment of the _Cosantóirí_ and a good reason to teach these particular humans a lesson on the value of vigilance.

The second thing he noticed was a brown lump lying a little way off and hidden for the most part by the long, lush, island grass. Nuada could tell in an instant that it was a living, breathing, _human_ lump, and he corrected his first impression; it seemed his sacrifice might not have been in vain after all. He walked over to the recumbent figure and glared down at it but the young monk only continued snoring softly as he dozed on in the hot morning sun, entirely unaware of his hostile audience and disturbed not one whit by the still-chiming priory bells. Nuada gave a mirthless smile; if only all humans were as careless as this indolent churchman. He drew his foot back and aimed a swift, hard kick at the sleeping watchman's side.

The young man awoke with a yelp and scrambled to his feet in an instant. He looked about in confusion, rubbing furiously at his ribs, and then let out another cry as he backed into something large and solid. He jumped forward and turned around. A brief flicker of fear crossed his face at the sight of the towering, hard-eyed stranger  but then he took note of the other man's familiar garb and relaxed.   
  
"Good morrow, Brother," he said, with an abashed half-grin.

"And to you," replied Nuada in chilly tones. There was an infinitesimal pause. " _Brother._ "

The monk's friendly, open look immediately disappeared and his features smoothed into a mask of polite attention. "I welcome you to Lindisfarne, pilgrim. I am Brother Cuthbert - named after Saint Cuthbert who lies buried in yonder church." There was the faintest hint of pride in his voice as he nodded in the direction of the large building some distance away. "Forgive me, Brother, for greeting you in such a fashion… or rather, for not greeting you at all." He essayed a small, conciliatory smile and waited for the expected response.

The church bells rang out their final call to worship and the sound hung in the air for a second before fading away. Cuthbert's face flushed as the older man only continued to stare at him with flat, stony eyes. Neither the buzzing bees nor the soughing sea could make up for the stranger's lack of response, and the young man started to stammer out an excuse in an attempt to fill the uncomfortable silence. "I, ah, I… I found no rest between Matins and Lauds last night and…" His eyes widened and he stopped short. "Holy Mary, mother of God!" he whispered, a look of outright panic on his face.

Nuada froze; he couldn't believe his ruse had been discovered so early on in the piece and what's more, by one such as the callow, idle youth before him. His muscles bunched as he prepared to spring on the yapping whelp and snap his neck.

The look on Brother Cuthbert's face took a distinctly miserable turn. "Forgive me Brother, yet again," he implored hastily, half-turning towards the chapel. "I meant no disrespect to the Virgin. It is merely that I – I was late for the Night Office last evening. If I am late for another observance so soon afterwards, it will go most hard on me in the Chapter House tomorrow."

Nuada relaxed a little; his disguise was safe after all and the monk's life with it… for the moment at least.

"Follow me if you will, Brother," the youth called out over his shoulder as he took two steps towards the church in the distance. "If we make haste we may yet arrive before the end of the hymn."   
  
He was brought up short by a sharp tug on the cowl of his tunic; Nuada reeled him back in.   
  
"Not so fast… _Brother._ I need first to remove the dirt from my journey," he said, with a meaningful look at his feet. "If you would be so good as to direct me to where I can wash up..."

Brother Cuthbert's eyes widened once more, this time in surprise. He didn't know what house the pilgrim hailed from but it occurred to him that it must be a very lenient one indeed if its inhabitants put _bathing_ ahead of the Divine Office. His eyes narrowed; perhaps the stranger before him didn't come from any particular monastery. Perhaps he was one of those monks Benedict had described in his Rule: a Gyrovague - one of the wretched kinds who indulged their passions and cravings. Hard on that came the thought that the stranger might make for a good companion at the dinner hour; he might have some... _interesting_ tales to tell. The young churchman immediately castigated himself. Even if the stranger _did_ have some interesting tales, they would not be the type he should lend an ear to; he'd be in even more strife with the Prior if he did that. Of course, what the Prior didn't know…

"Well!" demanded Nuada impatiently, breaking in on Brother Cuthbert's wandering thoughts. "Where can I clean off this dirt?" 

Cuthbert met the stranger's fierce, disapproving eyes and changed his mind; the man had more the look of fire and brimstone about him and the young monk got the feeling that whatever tales the pilgrim had to tell, he wouldn't be sharing them with _him_ over dinner in the Refectory. "You'd no doubt prefer the company of the Prior," he muttered.

"What?"  The word had more than a bite to it; Nuada was thoroughly annoyed with the slow-witted and slower-moving human by now. "'Tis a simple enough question, you young lack-wit! Where can I wash?" He took a threatening step towards the monk.

Cuthbert, for his part, took a quick step back and rubbed his eyes. _He could have sworn_ … He rubbed his eyes again and stared at the stranger, his face slightly ashen.

Nuada immediately realised the error of his ways and tried to rearrange his features into a more peaceable expression. A quick glance down told him his glamour was still securely in place but as he looked back up at the youth, he silently cursed. A glimmer of fear lit the other man's eyes and his face was a study in uncertainty.

"My apologies, Brother," said Nuada evenly enough, though his fists clenched at his sides as he spoke. "My temper is short at the best of times and my journey this day has not improved it." He could have added that he didn't suffer fools gladly, especially not _human_ fools, but thought the better of it and kept that confidence to himself.

"Of-of course, B-brother," stammered Cuthbert, quickly grasping at the olive branch. "You must be weary from your travels and if - if you do indeed fail in your struggle against the sin of wrath…"   
  
He trailed off into silence as Nuada's expression took another turn for the worse.

The elven prince bit down on the temptation to inform the hapless monk that he failed in _nothing_ and that, furthermore, his was _not_ the sin of wrath but rather a righteous anger - one directed at the hollow, grasping greed of the human race and at the base disregard they showed for any and everything which kept them from what they desired, his father's truce being a case in point. The magical beings of the world had honoured that truce both in letter and in spirit, teaching each new generation of their kind the meaning of its terms and never straying from the boundaries agreed upon all those years ago… never straying until more recent times, that is, when the ruthless, indiscriminate expansion of humankind had started to push them out of their forests and fields. Other rumours had reached Nuada's ears, a couple of years ago now, of secret Fae communities springing up beneath several of the great cities of man, and it gave him a sense of satisfaction to think that at least some of his people were pushing back. He doubted _athair_ had heard of those particular hidden realms, and hoped fervently that he never would. Balor would not stand for such a blatant breach of the truce, at least, not by any of his own kind; he was obviously happy enough to let the humans transgress to their hollow hearts' content. Deep down though, Nuada knew that his hope was a vain one; there was not much that could remain hidden from the Elf King for long.

He looked up.  Brother Cuthbert was still staring at him. It crossed Nuada's mind that the whelp had probably never even _heard_ of the old truce.   
  
"Somewhere to wash! Now!" he ordered sharply.

"Y-yes, Brother," replied Cuthbert. "There is a trough near the chapel. 'Tis where we wash our hands, before services. I suppose it might do well enough for your purposes." He looked skeptically at the pilgrim's feet and, for reasons known only to himself, was transfixed by the sight.

Nuada silently prayed to the ancient Gods for patience. "Then lead on, Brother Cuthbert," he said, his voice tight.

The young monk jumped and left off his contemplation of the stranger's shoes. He turned and quickly set out for the monastery with Nuada uncomfortably close on his heels.

"You - you are not from these parts then, Brother," ventured Cuthbert as they crossed the fragrant, green fields. He slowed his pace as he spoke.

"No," replied Nuada, not breaking his stride for so much as a second. He swiftly overtook the young monk.

Cuthbert gave the stranger's back a dark look; the man was utterly unbending and entirely lacking in the quality of mercy besides. He'd informed the pilgrim of the need for haste - and of the dire consequences awaiting himself should he be late for services again - and yet the man had insisted on delaying them with his talk of washing. _There'll be no escaping the Prior's wrath now_ , thought the young monk miserably; he forgot about his own tardiness entirely. Picking up his pace, he trotted after the stranger.

As he reached Nuada's side, a sudden thought occurred to Cuthbert and a look of triumph crossed his face. "If you _were_ from these parts," he huffed, "you would have known to take the more northerly route to our island… the one on which the mud is firmer and doesn't stick so much to your feet." He got a great deal of satisfaction from the stranger's hiss of indrawn breath.

They had reached the churchyard by now.   
  
"The trough for washing is on the other side of the chapel, Brother," said Cuthbert.  He started to lead the pilgrim to the far side of the main building but suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and spun round to look at the older man.  After a brief pause, he spoke again.  "I will leave you to find your own way.  You cannot miss it." With that, he turned sharply and made for the chapel door.

"You will not wash up yourself?" called out Nuada, a little surprised. One of the things he knew about the followers of Christ was that they always washed their hands before services and indeed, the monk himself had not long made reference to the practice.

Cuthbert stopped and looked back at the stranger.  "Ah, no," he replied, his expression quite smug now.

Nuada raised his brow in silent question.

"I have not toiled over much this morning," Cuthbert explained.

"That I can believe," muttered Nuada; the monk was nothing if not idle.

Cuthbert caught the faint sneer in the stranger's words and ducked his head to hide his own less-than-pleasant smile. "I will see you in the chapel…" He stopped, struck by a sudden thought. "I do not know your name, Brother. What do they call you?"

Nuada frowned; he'd been so intent on the information he sought that he hadn't even thought about the need for a human name. No matter; his own would do well enough. It was no longer widely-recognised amongst the humans.   
  
"Nuada. I am called Nuada of Bethmoora." 

"Bethmoora!  I have not heard of Bethmoora before. Is it a new order, Brother?"

"No, it is no."  Nuada was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice as he spoke.  "'Tis an ancient and great house though it is no longer as renowned or as powerful as it once was."

"If that is the case, Brother, then it is no longer as great either," observed Cuthbert.

Nuada's eyes narrowed dangerously.

Cuthbert continued speaking, blithely unaware that his life suddenly hung in the balance. "Well, Nuada of Bethmoora, I will see you in church." And with that, he finally left the pilgrim to find the water trough.   
  
As he entered the chapel, Cuthbert congratulated himself on his clever plan.  For he had remembered that when it came to the Prior, he who transgressed last was punished first and as a result, other rule-breakers often escaped punishment altogether. The young monk prayed, somewhat uncharitably, that such would be the case now; after all, it was Brother Nuada and not Brother Cuthbert who would be the last to enter the chapel.

But as he braved the Prior's steely look and took his place against the back wall of the church, Cuthbert recalled the fright he'd had earlier when the pilgrim had become angry with him.  Suddenly, he no longer felt quite so pleased with himself. Just for a moment - an instant so fleeting that had he blinked, he would have missed it - a change had come over the stranger's face, like the ripple on a pond. And in that moment Cuthbert could have sworn he was looking straight into the snarling, white face of Death.  An involuntary shiver ran down his spine; he wondered if he shouldn't mention something to the Prior. However, his happy knack of squaring away the unpleasant soon came to his rescue and it occurred to him that it was probably just a trick of the light… the sun in his eyes, no doubt. His peace of mind restored, the young monk opened his mouth and joined his voice to those of his brethren as they sang to the glory of God.   
  
It was only much later that Brother Cuthbert remembered the sun had been at his back during the whole of his encounter with Nuada of Bethmoora.

 

* * *

 

**References:**

Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae: (Irish Gaelic) The Bethmooran Defenders of the Fae (the army).

Saint Cuthbert (c. 634 – 687 AD): A Bishop of Lindisfarne, and one the most important medieval saints of Northern England.

Matins: one of the services in the Liturgy of Hours, or Divine Office, Matins is a fixed time of prayer observed at 2 a.m. each day. Also known as the Night Office.

Laudes: the early morning service of Divine Office observed at approximately 5 a.m. each day.

Chapter House: the place where a chapter of rules for the monastery was read out each day (usually around 8 a.m.) Afterwards, any monk who had not kept the rules was punished.

Benedict: Saint Benedict of Nursia (c. 480 – c. 543 or 547 AD, canonised 1220 AD), founder of the Order of St Benedict and author of a set of instructions for his monks to live by; the "Rule of Saint Benedict" was adopted by most religious communities founded throughout the Middle Ages (5th – 15th centuries AD).

Refectory: dining hall in a monastery.


End file.
